If I Die Young
by Kyra4
Summary: I retain only the most marginal, peripheral awareness of Gunther's arms holding me, crushing me. He has pressed his face to mine; we are forehead to forehead, nose to nose. He is putting off a horrible, feverish sort of heat. He is smoldering, burning. ((Now Complete))
1. Chapter 1

**Standard Start-of-Fic Disclaimer**: I do not own Jane and the Dragon, or any of the characters herein. I receive no compensation for writing works of fanfiction except possibly some nice reviews.

**Author's Note**: This little plot bunny has been niggling at me for a long time. The entire thing, the _entire_ thing, takes place on a battlefield where Jane lies injured; I just found myself wanting to do a really, _really_ in-depth exploration into what her thought process would be as she waits to be found, and then after she is. I took the title from a song, but the fic really doesn't have anything to with it, well other than that Jane is _in_ the process of dying young... _maybe_. Haven't really made up my mind on that point yet, whether the ending will be tragic or hopeful, so feedback in the form of reviews is warmly encouraged! ;)

OOOOO

OOOOO

_Find me. Find me. Oh God, Gunther, please find me. I do not want to die alone. I do not... want..._

I am lying twisted, half on my back and half on my side, my legs hooked up and over the torso of one fallen foe, my head cushioned on the lower leg of another. Most of my field of vision is taken up by this dead man's boot. my sword lies, glimmering dully, just inches from the fingertips of my right hand, but I cannot reach it. Even if I could, I would not be able to use it. My arm is broken, probably in more places than one. It feels like lead. Lifting it would be as impossible as... as impossible as...

I lose some time.

_Gunther... find me... Gunther... please..._

I blink my eyes slowly open. I cannot remember them having fallen shut. The sun is in a different position in the sky. The sounds of battle being waged all around me have faded. They are still there, but distant now. Closer at hand are the moans and cries of the wounded, the dying... those left behind, like me. The fighting has moved on.

How much time have I lost? Thirst is raging through me. My throat feels scraped raw, and on fire, at the same time. I have never experienced thirst like this. It is torture. I pull in a grating breath. Close my eyes for a moment. Open them. Exhale. This boot, this God forsaken boot that is the only thing I can see clearly from where I lie. It is filthy, crusted with mud.

_Gunther, Gunther, I have loved you for so long. I am sorry, so sorry Gunther, that I never had the courage to tell you. Please, Gunther, please find me. I do not want to die at seventeen. I do not want to die staring at this dirty boot._

I lose more time.

"...Jane! Jane! Jane, JANE!"

The voice is distant, but it is his. My breath catches in my throat. He is alive. He is _alive_. He is presumably on his feet. And he is looking for me. Oh, thank you. Thank you, God, _thank_ you.

"Jane! Jane! _JANE!" _ His voice is painfully hoarse, and it breaks on this last shout of my name. He lapses into a jagged coughing fit. Despite the million ways in which I am hurting myself, I ache to take that pain away from him. He sounds beyond awful. What if he is hurt almost as badly as I am? What if he is not walking or running as he searches for me, but staggering? Reeling? _Crawling?_ What if he... what if he...

I lose more time.

_And Dragon. Where is Dragon? Why is he not also looking for me? Calling for me? Flying above? He would never... _never _not look for me... never... unless... unless... no. Will not think about that. Will not. Will not. No. No. No. No. No. No. No_.

I lose more time.

"Jane!" He sounds as if he is crying. "JANE!" He also sounds, I realize despairingly, as if he is getting further away from me instead of closer. The light is long and golden now. It is remarkable that he is still searching at all. But then, what if our roles were reversed? How long would I search for him?

Until I found him. Until I _found_ him. Period.

So perhaps not so utterly remarkable after all.

"Gunther!" In my mind it is a shout, but the only sound that passes my cracked lips is a parched, unlovely croak; a sound so weak I can barely hear it myself. "Gunther," I try again, but now the name is a bare whisper; no more. I am frantic to attract his attention, yet helpless to do so. Why, _why_ is he straying farther and farther away? Why has he not seen me? I have not always loved the unusual and striking color of my hair but surely in a situation such as this it must serve as an asset, an advantage. It must call attention to me. It must...

_Helmet_.

Oh, God. How could I have forgotten? The helmet. I put it on for battle. I did not really want to, but... but Sir Theodore, he said... and then Gunther, Gunther even gave it a playful rap with his knuckles once I had... had snugged it into place. I did not want to, but I put it on. It is on still.

I have to get it off. It is a heavy thing. I cannot believe I had forgotten it was there. I must be far gone indeed. Can I get it off one-handed? Well, I have little choice but to try. Left in place, it condemns me. It _has_ to come off. Then maybe Gunther - or someone, _anyone_ - (but please, God, please let it be Gunther, unless it can be Dragon, but Dragon would have found me by now, so if it cannot be Dragon, then let it be Gunther) - will see.

I drag up the hand that is attached to my uninjured arm; it is shaking. Until this moment, I had had it pressed against the gash in my side; a gash that is shallow but has bled quite profusely. My fingertips are scarlet, and slippery with blood. This complicates matters even further. Who would have imagined that an act as theoretically simple as removing a helmet would end up demanding levels of strength and coordination that feel, under the circumstances, nearly superhuman?

The helm is dented on one side, too, near my left temple, where I took a pretty good blow; that was what ultimately laid me out, I think. I think... but it is hazy and difficult to pin down, exactly. Gash to my side, broken arm, blow to the head; yes, I think that these, my three major injuries, occurred in that order, but... but...

Am I sure? No. It may have been gash to the side, blow to the head, broken arm... or maybe...

God, does it matter? No! _Focus,_ Jane. Focus, _please_. I feel on the verge of drifting away again. _I have to do this first_.

I grip the edge of the helmet and tug. It takes nearly more out of me, than is left in me to give. I have to raise my head a little too; it nearly undoes me. But in the end, I pry it off. My hair spills free; an unmistakable, copper-bright wave. It practically screams color against the backdrop of the battlefield, which is all dark, churned mud; dark clothing, dark boots, and the brackish purple of congealing blood. Here and there is a spark of silver; a sword, a shield, a bit of armor glinting against the general muck. There is nothing else, however, that even remotely resembles the shade of my hair. In this matter, at least, I am confident.

_Let it be my beacon. Let it be my flare. Please. _Please_. Let it call out to him. Because I cannot. I am so tired... so tired..._

My fingers, nerveless, relax their grasp on the helmet's rim and let it settle in the mud. I lack the strength to move my hand all the way back down my body to apply pressure to the wound. I let it rest beside my head, palm open, fingers curled just ever so slightly skyward. This is all right, now. I have done what I could to make myself visible. He will either find me now, or he will not. Either way, it is out of my hands.

It is funny, I have seen Rake and Pepper's two-year-old daughter, Rose, fall asleep in nearly this same position, numerous times; splayed on her back, sometimes nearly sideways across her little bed, occasionally even with her chubby legs hooked up over a pillow in much the same way that mine are currently hooked up over this corpse. Hand flung up and come to rest beside her face in just this artless way. It always struck me as a wonderfully, whimsically innocent and childlike pose.

Do I look like a child, drifting off to sleep? I doubt it. I probably look like a horror. I certainly _feel_ like a horror. And yet, I am hoping against hope, hoping so _hard_, that he will find me here. It is selfish, I know. I should not wish for him to see me in this state. I know it will be upsetting for him... at least, I _think _I know it will. It would certainly kill me to find _him_ so.

But I hope it all the same. So that I may see him again. That is my selfish wish. To see him again. Even if only one more time. Even if only for a moment.

"Gunther. Gunther." I whisper it over and over again, staring at my bloodied fingers, until they begin to shimmer and waver before my eyes. I blink and they seem to double; again, and they seem to triple. I realize with a sort of distant, weary surprise, that I am crying; the tears cutting hot tracks through what is probably an admirable coating of grime on my face. I would not have thought I had it left in me to cry.

Interesting.

I should stop. Crying demands energy. Energy I do not have to spare.

I swallow hard. But the tears want to flow. They are fighting me. I gulp in a deep breath, intending to brace myself against them; but the rush of oxygen is too heady, too intense. The world begins to spin; slowly first, then faster. My own sick gasp of protest is the last thing I hear before -

I lose more time.


	2. Chapter 2

It is dusk. The light is nearly gone from the sky. The air is turning cold. I can hear his voice again. Shouting my name, my name, always and only my name. And this time I can hear something else. Pounding.

_Pounding._

At first, disoriented, barely half conscious, I think it must be the sound of my own heart that I hear. But then, finally, slowly, I begin to understand. It is not my heart.

It is the pounding of footsteps. Footsteps approaching at a run. With only moments of light left in this long, bloody, horrible day, can he have spotted me at last? Can I dare to hope? Can it be so?

It is.

He is moving too fast and with too much purpose to be very badly compromised; I can tell that before I even see him, simply from the sound of his gait. After years of training together, and keeping the king's order together, and more recently, riding into battle together, we know each other very well, after all. Particularly in a physical sense. Physical... _not_ intimate. They are very different, and_ oh_ how I regret my standoffishness now, now that all is said and done and I will likely never have the chance again.

But that is not important anymore. What is important is that he is not badly injured. Probably scratched and bruised and dinged-up some; no one comes through a battle untouched, _no_ one. But nothing serious, nothing like... like...

"_**JANE!**_"

He is very near now, and I know for certain what I suspected moments ago; he has seen me. He is closing in. Before, he had been _calling_ my name; hoping for an answer; searching, searching. This is an entirely different sort of cry. It needs no response because he is no longer looking for me. This is a cry of recognition. Panicked,_ horrified _recognition, but recognition nevertheless... and I am grateful for it.

It is inconvenient that my eyelids seem so determined to slip shut again, just now. This is not a good time! I struggle to keep my eyes open but my vision is darkening when I catch my first, peripheral glimpse of him. He is running all right... as I watch, he vaults over a body in his path, slips on a scrim of blood, goes to one knee. He is barely down a second, though, before he virtually launches himself back to his feet and toward me again.

I have not gotten a good look at his face yet. He is moving too fast and my vision is blurry anyway; infuriatingly out of focus. And my eyes keep trying to drag themselves shut. I am trying so hard, now, to hold on for him. He will never know how hard.

He falls again right before reaching me; goes to his knees and scrabbles over the final few feet that separate us, aiming a savage kick at one of the nearby bodies that litter the ground around us. I hear more than see his boot connect with the dead man's jaw; the sickening crunch of facial bones being obliterated. It is the man who inflicted most of this damage on me, interestingly enough. I wonder if Gunther has intuited that fact somehow, or if the body was simply a handy outlet.

"Jane." His voice is jagged as he reaches me. "_Jane_. JaneJaneJaneJane..."

I open my eyes. Wait, _open_ my eyes? When did they close? Gunther is crouched over me with an expression on his face of almost physical pain.

"Gunth..." I break off, coughing. My throat is so dry. Speaking hurts. Swallowing hurts. God, _everything_ hurts.

"Jane." His eyes are nearly black with panic. "Oh, God. Oh, no. Oh, _God_. No. Nononono." He reaches a shaking hand toward me - then pulls it back as if afraid I will break if he touches me. I have never seen him this way. He looks half-deranged. My appearance must be worse even than I had thought.

He twists around, shouting behind himself. Alerting unseen others that I am found. Calling for help. Turning back, he reaches for me again; pulls back again; suddenly raises both hands to clench in the jet-colored hair at his temples in a gesture of the purest despair I have ever seen. Sucking in a deep, unsteady breath, he rakes both hands roughly through his collar-length hair and tilts his head upward, toward the darkening sky. I can see the hard lines of his clenched jaw. I can see cords standing out in his neck. I can see that his whole body is trembling.

Still, for the most part he looks physically whole. I drink him in with my eyes. I am so grateful, so grateful, so grateful. A deep sense of peace, and an even deeper lethargy, begin to spread through me. I try to follow his line of vision, but with no success. What is he staring at? Clouds? Sunset? The evening's first stars? It is no use. I cannot see as far as the sky.

I let my eyes fall shut again; I hear my breath escape me in a little sigh. Each time before, when the darkness took me, it just... well... _took_ me. It overpowered me, and my own will, my own choice, had had little to do with the matter. This time is different. This time I am giving myself over to it. I have not the strength to defy it, nor even the will any longer.

I got what I wanted, after all.

I saw him again.

This time, I submit.

It feels almost as though I am melting into the ground. And then -

"Jane, no. _Jane_. No!"

I blink my eyes open again. Slowly, slowly. It is such a struggle now.

He has leaned down again, bringing his face so close to mine that our noses nearly bump together.

"That is better," he says grimly. "You keep looking at me, Jane. This is not right. _Not RIGHT_. I did not spend the past three hours looking for you, just to watch you lie here and _die_. That is unacceptable, do you hear me? Entirely out of the question. Help is on the way and you are going to lie here and _look_ at me, Goddamnit, until -"

He breaks off, frowning, glancing away down the length of my body. Mutters, "hold on," and withdraws from my line of sight once more. I hear the sound of fabric ripping. I start to slip away again almost immediately; it is the most natural thing in the world to do, after all. The darkness is all around me now; enveloping me, _lapping_ at me, like cool, soothing, enticing waters. I want to sink into it, I want _immerse_ myself in it, I want -

"Aaaaaaugh!" My eyes fly open again, my whole body jerking taut as the hoarse, anguished cry is ripped from me. I realize what he has done as lights explode across my vision followed by sickening blooms of darkness. A second later he is hanging right there above me again, and my theory is confirmed.

His body is bare from the waist up. He ripped off his shirt and is holding it hard against the gash on my side, applying pressure as I myself had tried to, back when the wound was fresh and I still had the coordination and the strength.

It feels as if he has set my side on fire. I have a sudden insight that he probably soaked the fabric in alcohol. He carries a flask everywhere, including into battle. It hurts. It hurts. Oh _God_, it hurts.

"Stop!" I gasp. Pulling on reserves of strength I did not know I had, my hand flies up, seemingly of its own accord, thwacking into his chest, trying frantically to push him away, to make him cease, disengage. It would have been both hands if my other arm were not broken. My fingertips streak his skin with my blood. "Gunther! Please! Uggnh! _Please!_ Stuh..._stop!_"

"I will not. I _cannot_. I am so sorry, Jane. I would take it from you if I could. Now hold on."

"Ugh... no..." Still pushing against him with all the limited strength I have, my eyes slam shut, my head twisting from side to side in a desperate, futile attempt to negate this new and horrible pain. "Please. Gunther, please! Stop stop stop stop..."

"Jane. _Jane_." His voice is implacable. I can almost hate him in this moment, even though I think - I _know_ - that if our roles were reversed _I _would be the one doing everything, _everything_ I could think of to keep him from leaving me, and pain be damned.

Then he takes his other hand and presses it to the side of my face. I gasp again, at this unexpected contact; at the warmth and strength and steady solidity of it. Instinctively I turn toward it, press into it, drawing what power I can from it and into myself. His fingers plunge into the tangled, sweat-damp hair at my temple; his thumb is stroking the line of my cheekbone, gently, absently. My whole body shudders and I sigh again; my own hand falls away from his chest. The pain is still awful but the fight has gone out of me.

How did he know to _do_ that?

"Jane," he says again. I force myself to meet his eyes, blinking hard to try and regain some focus.

I swallow hard and whisper, "yes?"

"Tell me what you need. What do you need from me to help you through this?"

"Stay... where... I can see you," I rasp out. "And also... uhm... water." My lips are so dry they are cracked. My throat is parched.

Unexpectedly, he barks out a staccato burst of laughter. "And you _would,_" he says, "immediately ask for something impossible. Of course." There is an edge of brittle humor to his voice, but it is stretched very thin. Behind it I sense a gulf of... what? Fear, perhaps. Or desperation. The things I would be feeling, if our roles were reversed.

"I do not -"

"Shhh." His voice is gentle again. "It is only that I will have to pull away a moment to get the water-skin. You do not get to use that as an excuse to try and steal yourself a little nap, do you hear me, Jane? No going all lazy on me _now_. _Stay awake_."

He shifts position, sitting upright and pulling his hand away from my face - I almost cry out in protest at its loss. Though I notice that the other hand - the one that is causing me such burning agony lower down on my body, remains as steady as ever. I bite my lip against the pain; bite it until I taste blood. My breaths are coming shallow, rapid and harsh.

Then he is back in my line of vision, holding the water-skin with one hand and yanking free the stopper with his teeth. His eyes are steady on my face, making sure I am being a good girl and staying awake as he said.

He places it down beside me, very carefully - water is a precious commodity out here on the field of battle. He leans close again. "Jane, stop." He skates his thumb across my lower lip, wiping blood away. "You are hurt badly enough as it is."

A second later, the horrific pain in my side eases. Swamped with relief, I realize he will need both hands to give me the water. Slipping one beneath my head to raise it a few inches, he holds the skin to my mouth with the other, allowing me to drink. There is a part of me that wants to gulp it down as quickly and as greedily as I can - I am so very, very thirsty - and another, more calculating part that wants to drink slowly and draw it out for as _long_ as I can, knowing that after he puts the water skin away, he will inflict that awful hurt on me again.

Gunther, however, is having none of it; either one. He controls the water carefully, and when he eases my head back down I start to panic, knowing what is coming. "Please," I whisper, hating that I am begging, unable to stop myself, "please Gunther, please do not -"

"You know I have to," he says quietly. "I am sorry, Jane."

"_No_ - AAAGH!"

It is too much. This time the world _does_ tilt away into blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

"Jane. Jane. Jane. Come back, Jane. _Please_ come back, Jane. _Jane_."

I inhale deeply; feel my body give a weak jerk as consciousness returns. I open my eyes to full dark.

"Gunther?"

My body has been straightened, I realize, and he has stretched himself out, full-length, beside me on the ground. He is still applying pressure to my wound, but the pain, while definitely still present, has lost some of its horrible freshness. He has covered me with something too; some warm piece of cloth that might be a blanket but is more likely, under the circumstances, to be a cloak. I feel his body stiffen at the sound of my voice, and he goes very, very still for a moment. Then,

"Thank you," he breathes.

This puzzles me. I am groggy almost to the point of feeling drugged, my thought processes slow and halting. "For... for what?" I manage.

"For not dying," he says simply. "Thank you."

"How... long did..."

"Only twenty minutes," he says. "But try not to do it again. It is dangerous, Jane."

"I will... try... where is everyone?" What I really mean to ask is, _why has no more help arrived than only you?_

"The king fell," he tells me in a voice that is quiet, but grim. I try not to gasp, because I know that gasping will hurt. I gasp anyway. The king is not meant to fall. The king is meant to be invincible!

"He lives," Gunther continues, "but he is very gravely wounded. Also, Prince Cuthbert stowed away somehow and snuck onto the battlefield, if you can believe that."

Dear God. Cuthbert. Yes, I can believe it.

"He too was injured," Gunther explains. "Between the two of them, the healers are... occupied at the moment."

"Oh." It makes perfect sense. The king _and_ the heir apparent fallen in battle! The implications are hideous. With not one but_ two_ royals wounded, with the very succession of the kingdom now in jeopardy, it is understandable. _Forgivable_. But then why do I still feel so... _abandoned?_

"Sir Theodore knows where we are," Gunther says, as if reading my mind. "Look."

Turning my head in the direction he indicates I see a lit campfire, small but bright, just a few feet away from us. An unmistakable beacon in the darkness.

"You have been... busy," I murmur, through lips that are feeling increasingly numb.

"He knows where we are," Gunther repeats with emphasis. "Help will come. Hold on, Jane."

Something else occurs to me, as I watch the fire burn. It could potentially attract enemies as well as friends. Gunther would never have done this if he had believed it likely, or even _possible,_ that unfriendly eyes might see this fire. So that has to mean...

"We won, then?"

"Yes, Jane. We won. They are utterly routed."

I should be relieved, excited, perhaps even jubilant at this news. Yet I cannot summon the energy for any of that. All of it has been eclipsed by a single stark and unavoidable fact.

I turn my face back toward his, straining to see him clearly in the gloom. "It hurts," I say simply. Two short words that sum up the entirety of my existence at the moment. I want to scream them, howl them, groan them, sob them. Instead my voice manages a passable semblance of normalcy.

Just as simply, he responds, "I know."

I let my gaze wander, back toward the fire that is crackling and popping in a manner that might, under other circumstances, be described as merry. Fire... fire... my thoughts are scattered now, and difficult to rein in, to get hold of. But that fire is reminding me of something.

Of what?

Fire... fire... oh yes. Of course. Now I remember.

"Gunther..." I have to swallow hard, and pull in a deep breath to brace myself. I do not want to ask this question, fearing that I already know the answer. Fearing that that answer will bring a pain that will dwarf what I am currently enduring into insignificance.

_I do not want to ask this question._

And yet, I must.

"Gunther, what... where... where is... _Dragon?_"

And from Gunther, only silence.

Silence.

_Silence_.

Then, "Jane, I -"

It is all I need to hear.

Suddenly I cannot breathe at _all_.

"_Jane -_"

"No. No. No, _NO!_"

I knew it was a possibility. A _probability_. I knew it before Gunther ever found me. I knew it because Dragon did _not_ find me. I knew it and I tried to brace myself for it but dear God, dear _God_, had I really thought it would be possible to successfully brace myself for knowledge such as this? The very idea is absurd.

"Not true!" I gasp. "It is not true, it cannot be true, I will not _let_ it be true!" Suddenly I am struggling - struggling hard - to sit up, to _get_ up; I have to see for myself. I will not believe until I see for myself. "You are ly... ly... _lying!_"

"Jane, stop! Do no do this to yourself, for God's sake, _stop!_"

"NO!" I actually manage to push myself into a kneeling position, though my head is swimming and the world is spinning. Bracing my good hand on the ground, I attempt to gain my feet. Gunther is staring at me open-mouthed, momentarily stunned into inaction. Clearly I have caught him off-guard. He had not expected that my reaction would be this... _extreme_. But of course it is.

Of _course_ it is.

Gritting my teeth, I propel myself upward. Suddenly Gunther is on his feet too, so fast I never even saw him move. He can be uncanny, sometimes. And I suppose it is a good thing, too, because less than a heartbeat later I am crashing forward into him, my legs completely unwilling to support me.

I scream as my injured arm is jarred; then he has me, wrapping his _own_ strong arms around me, easing me back to the ground. I am halfway in his lap, now, and sobbing.

"No... Gunther... no... please... take me... take me... there... I have to... see... I _have_ to... Dragon... _Dragon_... Gunther... please... _please!_"

"Jane, shh. Jane, Jane, shhhh." He is actually rocking me, gently, back and forth.

"No...no...no...no...no...no..._no_..."

My voice is cracking, breaking, fading. As Gunther holds and rocks me, I lose more time.


	4. Chapter 4

Coming back to myself, I notice right away that I feel different. A little bit floaty, as if I am hovering just above my body rather than actually, fully occupying it. Difficult to put into words, but it is as if... as if... as if the tether that keeps me bound to my own body has loosened, somehow.

Something about Dragon - some hideous, devastating knowledge - is dancing at the very edges of my awareness, but I push it away. It would be dangerous to face it full-on. Potentially catastrophic. I am not up to that right now.

I suck in a breath... try to flex my extremities... and am met with a wall of pain. I groan.

"Jane?"

_Gunther_. Once again his hand cups the side of my face, and once again I turn my head, nestling into its warmth as best I can.

"Yes?" My voice is a croak.

"You scared me half to death," he says. It is a dramatic thing to say, but he does not speak in a dramatic manner. His voice is totally flat; affectless. Flat with exhaustion, I think. Almost dead with it.

"I am. Sorry. Gunther."

I open my eyes. He has moved me closer to the little campfire, and his face is painted with flickering orange light. He has also, I see, splinted my arm. He follows the line of my gaze. "I set the bone while you were unconscious," he says. "It seemed an opportune time to do it. I have never done that before. I hope to God I did it right." He returns his eyes to mine. "Remember in training? We were shown the method and told that the longer one waits, the more likely the bone is to heal crooked? It is important to do it promptly but... God, Jane, if I have done you some lasting damage I will never forgive myself. I -"

"Shhh." Our roles have reversed. Now it is I who am soothing him. "You did the right thing. It feels better already."

This is a lie. I do not regret it. It is a kindness to him, and anyway, what are the odds that I will live long enough for either of us to discover whether the bone was properly set or not?

I do not think them very high.

"How long this time?" I ask.

"Close to an hour, near as I can tell. Long enough for me to..."

He trails off, one hand rising absently to clasp at a little green phial that is hanging from a rawhide cord he has looped around his neck. The only reason I can see it is that he is still shirtless; I can only assume that that particular piece of clothing, now doubtless soaked more with blood than alcohol, is still pressed tight against the gash in my side. Cautiously, I flex my body again, ever so slightly - and try my hardest to stifle the gasp of pain that follows this exercise.

I can feel more strips of fabric now wrapped tightly around me, holding the sodden, wadded garment in place against my wound. Of course... he would have needed to free both his hands, in order to set my broken arm.

I open my mouth to ask him about that phial, usually so well-concealed beneath his clothing. I cannot say exactly when he started wearing it, but it cannot have been more than a few weeks ago. I asked him about it once before, when I first noticed it; but he evaded my questions and made it clear that it was not a topic that was open for discussion. I had forgotten about it since, as he took even greater pains from that moment on to keep it hidden, and I was not ordinarily in a position to see him unclothed, even just from the waist up.

But even as I gather myself to speak - and yes, speaking has become an act for which I _need_ to gather myself - he once again seems to follow my gaze, and drops the tiny bottle as abruptly as if it had burned him. Something changes in his face, something... _closes_, somehow. And I know beyond doubt that it is still a subject to be avoided.

Very well. Speaking is a chore now, anyway. And my eyes are falling shut again.

The floating sensation is growing stronger. Whatever force it is that binds me to my physical self is dissolving; letting go.

"Jane, do not."

Oh God, why must he make everything so _difficult?_

"Please... I am so... tired..."

"Jane?" There is an unmistakably sharp edge to his voice now. It almost sounds as if he is getting angry. He cannot really be getting _angry_ with me... _can_ he?

"Yes?"

"I - do - not - _CARE_."

Oh, yes. He is getting angry.

"But -"

"Look at me. Jane, _look_ at me."

I make myself. And smile a little, despite everything. After all, this is what I was praying for, was it not? The chance to look at him, just _look_ at him, a little while longer.

"We need to keep talking," he says.

"So talk," I whisper.

For a moment he looks ever so endearingly blank. "I... I..."

"Gunther." It has just occurred to me that if the little bottle is still off-limits, perhaps I can finally give voice to another question that has lain heavy on my heart the past few weeks. Something I have wanted to ask him a hundred times, yet always lost my courage, lost my voice, each time an opportunity arose. The truth is, I have been terrified to hear the answer; to have my fears confirmed. But it does not frighten me any longer. Now that I am... disconnecting, if you will... I think I can even be happy for him, if it is indeed true. As long as it is something _he_ wants.

"Gunther?" I say again.

"Yes, Jane."

"Is it true that you are betrothed?"

He just stares at me for a moment. Then, "Wha... wha... Jane, _what?_"

He looks utterly amazed. _Genuinely_ amazed. And I feel my heart leap. Foolish, foolish heart. This would only be cause for celebration if it meant there was a chance for us. And there _is_ no chance for us. Because I am _dying_.

Still, I cannot help it. Some tightness in my heart and mind, a tightness I have been carrying around for quite a little while, has eased. It has eased, and that is a relief.

Gunther is still staring at me as if I have sprouted a second head. "What in God's name would make you _think_ such a thing?" he demands now.

It makes me feel almost silly that I ever gave any credence to what Magnus had said that day, in the first place. "Your father, he... announced your betrothal at court. A month ago or more. You were out on a three-day patrol at the time. So I could not ask you directly."

"And why do you think my father would make such an announcement when I was _not there!_"

"Well, I... know you do not always get along..."

"_No_, Jane! God! Because it is _not true_, that is why!"

"But... he said... a girl of good family... that everything is arranged..."

"No. _No. NO!_" He is getting more agitated by the second. "He has talked to me about it, but I _never_ agreed! Never. Jane, _never_. If the groom has no knowledge of it, and would certainly not go along with it if he _did_, does that sound to _you _like everything is arranged?"

"I suppose not..." The darkness is pressing in, closer on all sides. Stringing words together is becoming more difficult than ever.

"You suppose not." He sounds very nearly disgusted. "And if you could not ask me on the day that my puffed-up windbag of a father went to court with his grand announcement about which I knew _nothing_, then why did you never ask me _after?_ Why have you never asked until _now?_"

"I... because..."

_Because I was terrified, Gunther, so terrified of the answer. Terrified that the wrong answer would rip my heart right out of my body and shred it, tear it to pieces and grind it into the mud. Because I love you, I love you, I LOVE YOU. How can you not see how much I _love_ you?_

"The timing just... never seemed right."

"Well, that is a stupid answer if I ever - Jane! _JANE!_"

Suddenly he is gripping me by both shoulders, shaking me; gently at first, then harder.

And I know why. A shudder - a shudder almost strong enough to be called a _spasm _- has gripped my body, making me gasp. It passes quickly, but leaves me more drained than ever. My eyelids begin to flutter. God, what a horrible, useless, weak and infuriatingly _feminine_ thing for them to do. I hate it, and I hate the barely controlled panic that I can feel in Gunther's hands as they grip me - hate the frantic despair I can hear in his voice.

I hate it, but can do nothing about it.

Once again, I lose some time.


	5. Chapter 5

Swimming woozily back to consciousness, the first thing I see is the little campfire, now nearly burned down to embers.

The second thing I see is Gunther, and he is not yet aware that I am wakeful once more, and watching him.

He is sitting a few feet away from me, side-lit by the dying fire. Though still technically unclothed from the waist up, he has slung some coarse and overlarge piece of fabric across his shoulders to stave off the midnight chill. He has braced his elbows on his knees, and has his head cradled in his hands. Something glints in the firelight, catching my attention. I realize it is the tiny bottle, the one he wears around his neck on a rawhide thong. But it is not around his neck anymore.

His fingers are wound through his hair, and the cord is wound through his fingers. As I watch, he heaves in a deep breath, and then another. It almost looks as if he is _struggling_ to breathe, though I cannot imagine why that would be so.

Then he takes one hand, the one not holding the bottle's cord, and swipes it hard - almost _violently_ hard - across his face. Dashing tears away, is what that gesture reminds me of, but... but... this is _Gunther_. Gunther does not cry. I have _never_ seen Gunther cry. It cannot be... _can_ it?

For a moment, he looks up at the sky again, just like I saw him do right after he first found me. Then he drops his face directly to his knees, lacing his hands together over the top of his head. It is the most profoundly anguished posture I have ever seen in a human being. It hurts me almost physically to see him so. I cannot let this continue. I have to get his attention.

Unfortunately, this turns out to be more difficult than I had anticipated.

"Gunther." I mean to speak the word but there is no force, no strength, behind my voice. It comes out as less than a whisper... really, I no more than breathe it. At first, I think he must have heard me anyway, because he raises his head. But no... he does not turn toward me. Instead he drops one hand to the muddy ground beside him and raises the other - the hand that is fisted around the rawhide thong - until the miniscule, dark green bottle is dangling directly in front of his eyes. For a long moment he just watches it sway at the end of its cord, then he takes another of those gasping, shuddering breaths.

It is as if he is working himself up to something.

_Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._

This is wrong. Something about this is so, so wrong. All my instincts scream it. A bright flare of panic tears through me. This is wrong, and I have to do something about it.

_I do not have the strength._

Well then I need to _FIND_ the strength.

Because something is going on here that is _cataclysmically_ wrong.

As I watch, his eyes narrow, his jaw sets, and the corners of his mouth wrench violently down. I know Gunther well enough to understand that he has just succeeded in screwing his courage to the sticking point. Whatever it is that he has been racheting himself up to do, he is ready now.

_Do something, Jane. Do something NOW!_

He relaxes the hand that is holding the bottle's cord, allowing it to slither through his fingers; but before it can fall to the ground, his other hand flashes up - so quickly I barely see it move at all - and catches the tiny thing. He moves to wrench free the stopper... but it is wedged in tight, and it resists him.

I close my eyes, gulp in a deep breath of my own, steel myself, and then channel all the energy, focus, willpower, and resolve that I can summon into simply... sitting _up_.

Almost miraculously, I manage it. Dizzying, breath-stealing pain crashes in on me and I give a sick little gasp. It is not what I was hoping for; I was hoping to surprise a scream out of myself. But it appears my capacity for screaming has well and truly passed. Just as I could not get enough force behind my voice to call his name a moment ago, so I cannot seem to summon the energy necessary to scream now.

But I have succeeded in capturing Gunther's attention nevertheless.

I suppose that makes this little exercise in agony a success, after all.

I hear him shout something, but I cannot make out what it is. There is a queer rushing, buzzing sound in my ears and the world is spinning now, fast. Next I am falling sideways and I know that hitting the ground is going to hurt _enormously _- but it never happens.

I fetch up against something warm and solid instead, something that was not there an instant ago. I fetch up against _him_.

The world goes dim with the impact but I grit my teeth and manage to prevent it from slipping away altogether. I refuse to let the blackness take me again until I have discovered just what the _hell _it was that he was preparing to do, and until I have been assured that he _will not do it_.

He is holding me against himself with staggering intensity. Slowly the wind-like rushing in my ears subsides, allowing me to begin making sense of what he is saying.

" - so quiet and _still_, I thought you were _dead_, oh my _God_, Jane, I thought... I thought..."

His voice is so harsh and... and _choked_ that he barely sounds like himself at all. As for me, my broken arm is screaming hellfire. I grab onto that pain with grim determination and use it to anchor myself to reality. No slipping away, Jane. Not now.

I raise my other arm - my good arm - and fist my hand in the rough fabric draped over his shoulder.

"Gunther. Gunther. Guhn..._Gunther_." My voice is weak and it takes me several tries to get through to him. No matter. I will try for as long as I have to. Eventually he calms down somewhat, though he does not loose the death-grip he has on me.

I swallow hard. Grate out his name again. "_Gunther_."

He gasps out something that might be a response.

"Bottle," I say. "Green. Bottle." God, but it is getting hard to string these words together. "What. Is. Is it?"

He does not answer me, not in words... at least, not right away. Instead he eases me back to the ground, cushioning my head with one large, combat-roughened hand. With the other, he pulls the cloth off from around his shoulders and tucks it around me with the same gentleness I have seen in Rake when he tucks his tiny daughter into bed at night.

'I am going to build the fire up," he says. "Stay still and stay awake. Please, Jane. _Please_. You cannot do that to me again. You cannot. I thought... I thought..."

It seems that he wants to say more, but his voice chokes off into silence. He starts to turn away from me - turns back - opens his mouth once more - then closes it again, shakes his head, and crawls over to the guttering fire. Makes himself busy.

The temptation is there to drift off again but I resist it. The time has come to find out what that tiny phial is. Even though I am afraid to ask, just as I was with the betrothal, I will no longer let that fear still my tongue. Not after what I just saw.

A few moments later, with the fire burning brightly once more, he is back and settles himself beside me cross-legged.

"Gunther." My voice is little more than a croak, and it is a painful croak at that... but I plunge ahead anyway. "Tell me."

There is no need for clarification. We both know what I am asking.

His back is to the fire and his face lies in shadow, but I can still see the smile that twists his lips; it is an awful smile, grim and terrifying. "This?" he says, indicating the phial that he has slung about his neck again. "You asked me once before."

"Yes." I barely breathe the word. "I druh... dropped it because you did not seem... receptive. But I... I -" _(I have to pause for a moment and rally myself)_ - "I am not going to drop it this time. You want us to keep talking? Well, this is the topic I choose."

That ghastly specter of a smile is still hovering about the corners of his mouth as he says, "it is fine. It was not the right time to discuss it, then. but if there is ever to _be_ a right time, I suppose this is it. I got this from the apothecary in town, right when our political situation began to, ah... deteriorate. Rapidly. When I knew that more likely than not, there would be trouble ahead. Dangerous trouble, trouble that could put y - _us _- in harm's way."

My throat closes up and my blood runs cold. I had an inkling, yes, that is true. I had a hunch. But I was hoping so hard to be proved wrong.

"No." The word is forced out of me in a sort of reverse gasp. "_No_. You cannot..._ cannot _mean to..."

"Follow you?" he asks, in a voice of deceptive calm. "Of _course_ I mean to follow you. I have followed you everywhere else, have I not? There is nothing here for me without you. What else do I have? No family that I care to claim. Sir Ivon gone these last two years. And the kingdom is safe now; there will be peace. So I will go where you go, Jane. _Wherever_ you go. And there is no point in forbidding it. My mind is made up."

My head is spinning; mind is racing; soul is screaming. Yet all I can manage to croak out is a single word. "Poison."

"Poison?" Gunther actually looks a bit taken aback. "No. I do not call it poison, Jane. I call it..." he pauses for a moment, as if searching, groping for the proper word. Then he smiles again - but almost mildly this time. Almost _serenely_.

"I call it _transportation_, that is all."

"But... but..." I am horrified, but even more than that, _far_ more than that, I am simply _stunned_. "But _why?_"

His brows draw together now in an expression of genuine perplexity. "Can you really not _know?_" he asks, and now his voice is shaking. "Can you really not realize how much I damn well _love_ you? Dear_ God_, Jane, you are my whole heart."

For one brief, shining moment his words hang there in the darkness, suspended in front of me almost as if he had written them in fire against the backdrop of the night sky, and everything else is forgotten. Or, no - not exactly forgotten - but pales to insignificance beside the mighty import of his words.

He loves me. He _loves_ me. _He LOVES me_.

I just want to grab hold of this knowledge, and clasp it to me, and live in it forever, and never let it go. He loves me.

And then everything else comes crashing back in. The magnitude of what he just told me. Not only the good part, but the horrible too. What he is planning to _do_.

He loves me, yes. But I am _dying_. And _because_ he loves me, if I die, he will too.

_He will too_.


	6. Chapter 6

The sun is rising.

I watch the pink stain of dawn creep across the sky with tired eyes. Really, more than anything else, that is all I feel anymore... tired. The pain is still there but it has faded. It seems distant and unimportant now. Mainly I am tired. Just tired. _So_ tired.

He will not give the bottle to me. Over and over, following his revelation, I asked. Finally I was reduced to just a single croaked, begging word; _please_.

"Please."

"I cannot."

"Please."

"I cannot."

"Gun... Guhn... Gunther. _Please_."

"Jane, I cannot."

At some point the tears started up again, but this time they were sluggish, almost drugged; burning hot, slow tracks down my cheeks to lose themselves in my tangled hair. It was _his_ turn, then, to beg _me_ - to beg me not cry, to point out that he has only limited water on hand, to exhort me not to dehydrate myself this way.

But I could not stop. I _cannot_ stop. I tuned my face away.

We lapsed into silence then, and the silence has lasted, except that every few minutes he would ask if I was still awake and I would whisper, "yes."

A little while ago, he stopped asking.

I turn my head back now, slowly. Gunther has fallen asleep. I lie still and watch him as the sky grows steadily lighter.

He looks terrible. I have never seen him look half this bad. Ashen to the point of chalkiness; haggard and restive even in sleep, as if he has forgotten, on a very deep level, what true peacefulness is - and will never remember again. Those remarkable gray eyes I love so much, closed now and circled with dark rings of fatigue. It hurts my heart to see him so. And the bottle - that god-awful, _evil_ little bottle - still looped around his neck and dully reflecting the strengthening light. I hate it, I hate it, oh I _hate_ it so.

What I would not like to do to the man who _sold_ him that bottle... I know the apothecary in town, the one he must have visited. A horrid, furtive, _scurrying_ sort of man... wretched, and _servile_, and shifty-eyed, and... and...

For a moment I entertain thoughts of trying to get the bottle away from Gunther while he slumbers, but it is a fool's hope. There is no way I could tug the cord over his head without waking him. I do not have a dagger or knife handy with which to sever the rawhide, nor would I be able to use such an implement one-handed, even if I did. Not without serious risk of cutting _him_ while I was at it. And then imagine - just for a moment, imagine - that I _did_ succeed in getting hold of it without waking him. I would be utterly unable to hold the bottle steady and yank out the stopper, for the same reason I am unable to wield a knife to cut the cord; my thrice-damned broken arm. I cannot get it away from him. It is hopeless. I am in despair.

_No. I do not have the LUXURY of despair. Not with Gunther's life at stake. And since I cannot get it away from him by stealth or by force, I need to keep trying to convince him to give it up willingly. I MUST keep at him. Giving up on him is out of the question. Do not dare even consider it, Jane!_

In his sleep, Gunther's brows knit; his lips part (they are nearly as cracked and chapped as my own) and he hisses in a sharp breath. Mutters something I cannot quite make out and then shakes his head, just once, back and forth; a single, sharp negative. Then he tosses from his back onto his side so that he is facing me... only "tosses" is really too gentle of a word. He throws himself from his back onto his side, is more accurate; but doesn't wake for all of that.

He does, however, whisper just a single word before apparently sinking back into a deeper sort of slumber, with his head now cushioned on one arm; and of course the word is "_Jane_."

_I need to kiss him. Now._

I have no idea where the thought comes from; it catches me entirely off guard. But there is an urgency and an... insistence... to it that cannot be denied.

It defies logic but it also defies resistance.

And after all, it is something that I have wanted to do, with ever mounting desperation, for oh, the past three years at least. At least. And if I am to be entirely honest with myself...

But I cut off that line of thought. What a pointless waste of time, to lie here internally debating whether I have wanted to kiss Gunther Breech for three years, or four, or four and a half, or...

Biting my lip, holding my injured arm cradled against myself, I close the distance between us at a crawl. Fortunately, there is very little distance to close.

Up close, I can see the dusky shadows that his lashes are casting on his waxy-pale cheeks. I can see the rust-colored streaks of blood that my own fingers left on his cheek not long after he found me... it seems a lifetime ago, already. I can see the dark, sandpapery stubble of a jawline left unshaved because of battle.

Little sadnesses, one after another. I see them all.

I bring my lips to his.

At first I do no more than brush his lips with my own, but then he is responding, still in his sleep; responding more quickly and... _intensely_... than I ever would have imagined.

A sound that is part groan, part sigh is wrenched out of him and then his lips are moving against mine - gently at first but only for a second. Before I can do more than even begin to react, the kiss becomes hungry, demanding, possessive - and his eyes are still closed and I think he is still asleep, but his arms snake out incredibly fast, and pull me to him, _crush_ me to him, and I cry out from the bright, cruel pain that rips through me as a result. I cry out, but the cry is lost in the kiss, absorbed by it, _devoured_ by it, and that is all right. That is just fine. Pain or no pain, I have wanted this for so long, so long, _so long_... and now that it is happening, I never want it to end.

I even manage to raise my own arm - the uninjured one - and plunge my fingers into his thick, dark hair, pulling him even closer to me, further deepening the kiss. I have wondered what it would feel like to do that.

He tastes of salt; the salt of sweat and tears. It gives the kiss a gritty, earthy aspect that I never imagined or anticipated. It colors the moment with an unutterable sadness, but that is all right. It is what it is, and I am just so grateful to able to experience this at all.

"Jane," he murmurs, lips moving against mine restlessly, almost feverishly, and he is _still_ not awake, not completely, but he is coming up from the depths of his sleep, slowly but steadily. He will be awake in a moment, I know. "_God_, Jane."

He pulls back just the slightest bit; kisses the corner of my mouth, the tip of my nose, my forehead. He is raining kisses on me now; kissing my cheeks and I realize that I am still leaking those slow, hot, somehow _heavy_ tears. I have never stopped, and now he is kissing them away. He is very close to wakefulness now, but seems to be resisting it; willfully fighting against it. I do not blame him, really.

He kisses my temple, the lobe of me ear, the line of my jaw. I am too hurt, too profoundly compromised, to feel any true arousal at this point... but I feel the... the... the _potential_ of it, if that makes sense. If the circumstances had been different, I would have been wild with arousal at this point. I can understand this and appreciate it, and _God_, but it makes this moment bittersweet.

Nuzzling into the hollow of my throat, the place where my neck and shoulder meet, he shudders, hard, his whole body; and I know he is awake again. He has come back to himself.

My fingers are stroking gently, absently, through his hair. I love the way it feels. I love the way _he_ feels, pressed against me. But some very deep instinct is telling me that my time has nearly run out.

It is almost time to... _go_.

That is all right. Before he found me, I had thought that all I wanted was to have the chance to look at him again. I have gotten so much more than that. So, so much more.

"Gunther." His name leaves my lips as no more than an exhalation of breath.

He shudders again. I think he is trying to master himself before he raises his eyes to mine. I think he is finding it difficult to do. Finally -

"Jane." My name falls from his lips like a prayer.

"I love you." I breathe the words so quietly I can barely hear them myself... but his head comes up with a jerk, his eyes fastening instantly on mine.

"What?" he demands. "_Why?_"

A smile curves my lips. It is slow and sleepy; almost what you might call languorous.

"Because you are Gunther Breech," I murmur, "and that is all the reason I need."

"No," he says, his eyes boring into mine. "Why are you saying that _now?_"

_He knows_, I realize. _He can sense it. He can sense that I am saying good bye._

"You deserve a good life," I whisper. "You do... Gunther, you really do. Follow me if you must, but not yet. Not _yet._ Promise me you will give it some time. Promise me you will... will... at least give time a chance to heal this... Gunther, please. You can do that much for me. I know you can. Gunther. _Please_."

But he is shaking his head. Stubborn, _stubborn_ man. "Jane, no. You cannot do this. You cannot give in. _You never give in! _ You are the most infuriatingly stubborn person I have ever met!" (I smile again, to myself this time, amused that just a second ago I had entertained the exact same thought about him.) "You are Jane Turnkey, and Jane does not give in. _My_ Jane does not give in! Please, Jane! _Please!_"

"Promise me, Gunther. _Promise_ me."

"_NO!_" He is practically screaming by this point. On the brink of hysteria. God, it is terrible to see him this way.

"Gunther..." my eyes are slipping shut, despite my best efforts to the contrary. "You are breaking my heart."

"How the hell can _YOU_ say that to _ME_ right now!?" he demands. He is frantic, but he is furious too. There is more in this vein, but I cannot hear it. The rushing is back in my ears and it is stronger now. It is carrying me away. And my heart is broken, whatever he may believe, to leave him in peril like this. In peril of suicide. Suicide endangers more than his life. It endangers his _soul_.

_Oh God_, I pray, _God please... please give me more time._

_Just a little... just a little more TIME. _

_Please..._


	7. Chapter 7

It is different this time.

Every other time, when I was getting ready to _lose_ time, the world darkened. My vision faded to black. Now the opposite is happening. Things are fading, yes... everything, even the most immediate things, even Gunther.

But they are not fading to black. They are fading to... to _light_. Strange, very strange. But true. The world is getting brighter, as if some sort of veil is being pulled back, allowing me to start glimpsing whatever it is that... that lies beyond.

My eyes are wandering, now; wandering the ground, the sky, the horizon in between. There is so much light everywhere, in every color imaginable. But more than anything else, white. Everything is fading to _white_. A sense of peace settles over me, all my fear of the unknown washed away by whiteness. I _never_ really thought that dying was the end, but now I am certain. There is something else, something more, and I cannot see it yet but I can see... the beginnings of it. Soon more will be revealed to me. Soon _all_ will be revealed to me. And I can already sense that what is waiting for me is pure... gentle... welcoming... serene.

Then something happens... in the foggy, floaty state that has settled over me, it takes me several seconds to process the sharp sound and the sudden hot blaze of pain along one side of my face. Eventually I realize; Gunther just slapped me. _Slapped_ me! Hard! It is enough to bring me back into myself, for the moment, at least.

I gasp in a deep, hitching breath, shocked by what he has done. Forcing my eyes to focus once more on his face, I realize that the shining colors which have transfixed me - even now I can see them shifting and sparkling on the edges of my vision - are entirely lost on him. There is nothing even remotely peaceful or awestruck about his expression in this moment. To the contrary, his face is the absolute picture of stark terror and panic verging on madness. Dear God, how can I leave him like this?

And yet... how can I _stay?_ This is out of my hands. I do not have a say any longer.

_Do I?_

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. And I pray. I pray hard.

_Please. I need more time. It is not for myself I ask. It is for him. Only for him. Always for him. I _love_ him. I love him. If You love him too, if You love both of us, _all_ of us, as I have been taught, then please let me save him. Please. Please. Please. Oh, please._

Even as I beg, the world swims away from me again. I retain only the most marginal, peripheral awareness of Gunther's arms holding me, _crushing_ me. I can feel... barely, barely... that his body is shuddering, it is being... wracked... as if by sobs. Great, gusting, nearly convulsive sobs. He has pressed his face to mine; we are forehead to forehead, nose to nose. He is putting off a horrible, feverish sort of heat. He is smoldering, burning.

It is destroying me to leave him this way.

"Time," I whisper frantically, as the world around me shifts, melts, drops away.

"Time."

OOOOO  
>OOOOO<p>

_...time._

_Time._

_Just a little_

_little more_

_Oh God..._

_Please..._

_just a little..._

_little more TIME._

_Not for myself..._

_do I ask this. But please..._

_please do not make me leave him this way._

_He is in... such danger... such danger._

_I cannot... leave him... this way._

_In this dark place... this place of despair._

_Please, God... or whoever..._

_WHOEVER is listening._

_Please..._

_please..._

_please._

It gradually begins to dawn on me that I can no longer feel Gunther's arms around me. In fact, I can no longer seem to feel _anything_ - anything at all. Slowly, uncertainly, I open my eyes.

And I see... nothing. Nothing at all. Neither the ordinary world I am accustomed to, nor the dazzling, ethereal brightness that I caught just the most tantalizing glimpse of before Gunther's desperate slap, which had the effect of jolting me, however fleetingly, back into my own body.

Now I seem to be floating in grey. This is... worrisome. Deeply worrisome. But then, on the other hand, I am no longer in any pain. As troubling as this situation is, I cannot help but feel relieved on that account, at least.

"Gunther?"

When I had been lying in his arms, my voice had been nothing but a croaky rasp - at most. Other times it had escaped me as little more than a puff of breath. Now it comes out loud and clear - I startle myself, badly.

"Gunther!" I twist myself around, trying to look in all directions, but there is nothing, nothing to be seen at all. And the sensation of turning is so strange... like turning underwater. Because I am floating. I really _am_. As if I actually _were_ underwater.

This is very strange. I can handle the strangeness. Especially since the pain that was shredding me mere moments ago has completely vanished. What I am having difficulty with is the total lack of Gunther. He was holding me... he was _just holding me_...

_"Gunther?"_

My heart is quite suddenly trying to slam itself right out of my ribcage, and I find myself breathing at the very top of my lungs. Panicking. I am panicking. Oh God, Gunther, Gunther, Gunther...

_**Jane.**_

The voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. It seems vaguely, distantly familiar, but I cannot place it. It is definitely not Gunther's.

I twist around again, staring about wildly. There is nothing, nothing anywhere, only me, adrift in a sea of soft grayness.

"Hello?" My voice is shaking. All of me, I realize dimly, is shaking. I swallow hard. "Who are you? _Where_ are you? Where am _I?_" My breaths are piling on top of each other. My thoughts are scattering. What is this place? I feel so alone. I do not want to be alone. I want -

"GUNTHER!" I half shriek the name. Frantic.

_**Jane, be calm.**_

_How can I be calm!?_ I think.

"How can I be calm!?" I shout. "Where is Gunther, I cannot leave him like that, he was half mad, no he was _full mad!_ Gunther, Gunther -"

Distraught to the point where I barely know what I am doing, I bring up both hands, pressing the heels of my palms hard over my eyes, blocking out the overwhelming nothingness of this place-that-is-no-place, clenching my fingers in my hair for added measure.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I fight for control.

_Breathe._

"All right," I whisper a moment later... or an eternity later. I am really not sure which. "All right. I am sorry. I... I..."

_**This is most unusual,**_ says the disembodied voice, in a musing, reflective tone. _**Most unusual indeed.**_

"What? _Why?_ Please. I am so confused. Please just tell me... where I am... what is happening to me?"

_**You are in transition, Jane.**_

"What...? I do not -"

_**You have left your body. You have passed on.**_

"No," I whisper.

"NO!" I scream. "No, no, please God NO! Gunther will... Gunther will..." I cannot even bring myself to say it. It is too horrendous to articulate. Too horrendous even to _contemplate._ My few brief seconds of hard-won, fragile control are dissolving back into utter, near-howling panic. I am unraveling completely.

"Send... please... send someone... can you _send_ someone... PLEASE... to stop him!?"

_**Jane -**_

"_Please!_ Someone _has_ to stop him! I tried... tried to make him promise but he would not, he would NOT! Someone has to stop him before he hurts himself, before he -" My words choke off. Once again, I am literally unable to speak my deepest fear. I cannot say it. To say it would be to invite it.

Only... I have already invited it. I have invited it by _dying_, by not being strong enough to stay with him, to stop him. I have already invited it and it will happen at any moment if it has not happened already, if it is not happening _now_. My face still hidden behind my hands, I give a strangled groan of despair.

_**Jane, be calm. You are in transition. The transition has not been completed yet.**_

This is the most the voice has said at one time. I am very close to placing it. The sense of familiarity behind it. Very close. And then -

I raise my head again with a shuddering gasp. Suddenly I am twisting around again, staring into the nothingness, frantic to see the source of the voice, frantic to see _anything_, for that matter; anything at all. "Dragon? Is that you!? DRAGON!?"

The voice, when it comes again, is tinged with amusement. _**I am not your dragon, Jane.**_

Not your dragon.

Not _my_ dragon.

"Are you_ a_ dragon? Can I see you? Please, I am so confused and -" my voice drops to a croaky sort of whisper - "and scared."

_**You have nothing to fear. I am not one dragon. I am all dragons. I am the maker of dragons. **_

I feel my breath catch in my throat. This is too much information to process. This is overwhelming. For a few brief seconds, though, it has diverted my attention from Gunther. "Is Dragon - _my_ Dragon - is he here? Is... did he... Gunther said..."

_**Gunther believed what he said. However, he was mistaken. Dragons are almost forgotten in your time. There was a time when they were well known to mankind. There may yet be a time when they are well known again. But the people in your time understand very little of a dragon's physiology. While your dragon was indeed injured, his injuries are not insurmountable. He will recover.**_

I burst into tears of relief, my whole body sagging with it. I am distantly amazed at myself. Sobbing with relief is not a characteristic behavior for me. Then again, I have never been pushed to this emotional extreme before. Dragon will recover. _Dragon will recover._

Everything else is still terribly, horribly, cataclysmically wrong. But Dragon will recover. There is that to be grateful for, and that is something. Thank God, oh thank God. That is _something_.

_**And now,**_ says the voice reflectively, _**there is the question of YOU.**_

"Me?" I whisper hoarsely, "what _about_ me? I do not matter. Dragon matters. Gunther matters. Oh God, Gunther! Say you will help him! Please say you will!"

_**Jane.**_ There is a terrible sort of gentleness to the voice now. _**I will not. I am the maker of dragons, and I am the maker of your race as well; I am the maker of all. But I do not interfere with the free will of mortal beings. I am sorry. I cannot save Gunther from himself.**_

And I feel something in me, some spark, tiny but fierce, gutter... and then go out.

Only to be rekindled an instant later when the voice continues, _**But perhaps you can.**_

"Wha... what?" I feel so wrung out that I can barely string words together anymore.

_**A moment ago I mentioned that this situation is somewhat unusual. Do you recall that?**_

I give a single, weary, unhappy nod. I do not feel I have many more words left in me.

_**Are you not curious, Jane? Are you not curious WHY?**_

I swallow hard and manage to croak out a single syllable; "why?"


	8. Chapter 8

There is a musing, thoughtful sort of pause. For me, out of my mind over the Gunther situation, it is torture. At length the voice speaks again.

_**A hundred times a day, someone will beg or bargain for the ability to extend his or her life. I hear these pleas, these offers and negotiations, but I do not interfere. Life - and death - must be allowed to take their course. Except. Except.**_

Another pause before the voice continues.

_**Once in a great while - once in a hundred years, or two, or five, I hear a person whose pleas, whose bargaining, are inherently, and fundamentally, and profoundly different from all the rest. You are one of those, Jane. Can you think why?**_

"No," I whisper miserably. "No, I cannot. There is nothing special about me. Nothing at all. I only want to save Gunther. Please, I... I have to save him. I have to, and I am running out of time."

_**But Jane. Child. Cannot you see, cannot you understand? Therein lies the difference. All the difference in the world.**_

"What?" I ask numbly, stupidly. This is so far outside my grasp. So very far beyond me.

_**Your reasoning, Jane. The motivation behind your all-consuming desire to live. It is completely, and totally, utterly, profoundly, unselfish. And that makes you extraordinarily rare. It makes you... particularly noteworthy.**_

The voice pauses again as I attempt to process all of this. Then,

_**Every human being - or perhaps I should say every **_**sentient**_** being, to include your dragon and the others of his kind - for there **_**are**_** others, Jane, although tragically few, and they are far flung and well hidden - so, every sentient being is unique. Every sentient being is precious. Every sentient being matters profoundly. Every sentient being is **_**Loved**_**. But it is a rare soul indeed that is as perfectly selfless as you, in your desire for more time on the mortal plain. You literally care nothing for whether you live or die; you are entirely motivated by the desire to save the life of another. **_

I try to think whether this is true. I did not want to die, lying on the battlefield and waiting - _praying_ - for Gunther to find me. I did not want to die. And yet, once I realized the danger he was in, it is true that nothing else mattered. All that mattered from that point on was Gunther. Trying to find a way to save Gunther. That eclipsed everything, _everything_ else. So I suppose it _is_ true. But it does not seem in any way remarkable to me. Would not anyone react in the same way? With their loved one at stake like that?

**_It does not happen often,_** The voice continues. _**In fact, I do not think I can fully convey to you just how unusual this is. Or, for that matter, how infinitely beautiful.**_

"Beautiful?" I echo, my voice a rusty croak. Apparently _not_ everyone would react in the same way. Which is deeply baffling to me. I am completely at a loss. I am barely following along anymore.

_**So Jane, because your motivation is so pure, I will make an exception for you. I will send you back.**_

It feels like a jolt goes through my entire body at these final words. _This_ much, at least, I can certainly grasp.

"You can... you will... oh thank you, _thank_ you!"

_**It will not be easy, Jane. There will be pain. A long recovery.**_

"I know. I _know_, it is all right, I can endure it, only I must get back to Gunther -"

_**Yes, Jane. I know. Carry my blessing back with you. We will meet again, in time. Now go, with strength and courage and love. Go.**_

And then I am no longer floating; I am falling. It is so sudden and shocking that I cannot even find the breath to scream. I plummet through the grey, which darkens to black as I fall, and then I plummet through the black as well. And then.

And then.

OOOOO  
>OOOOO<p>

I slam back into my body - that is how it feels - as if some giant, cosmic hand has whacked me back into myself with tremendous force. My whole body jerks taut, right down to my toes, my back arching off the ground like a bow. My eyes fly open and I try to scream, but I cannot; cannot scream, cannot even _breathe_, and cannot see a thing.

Panic threatens to engulf me and then I realize that the reason I can neither see nor breathe is that there is fabric - some heavy, dark fabric - lying over my face. Over _all_ of me, in fact; but at this moment all that matters is the fact that it is covering my face, and I have actually sucked a bit of it into my mouth in my frantic, futile attempt to draw breath. Raising my uninjured arm, I claw at it, dragging it down, away from me. Gulping and heaving air into myself with such desperate intensity that I begin to cough and retch with it.

Twisting my head to one side, the first thing I see is that I am still lying on the field of battle, in the makeshift little campsite that Gunther threw together so that he could stay with me through the night. The daylight has grown a little brighter. Not very much, though. It is still dawn. Perhaps a few moments have passed.

The second thing I see is that the fabric that had been covering me - my good hand is still fisted in it - appears to be the rough-woven blanket that Gunther had been wearing over his shoulders at one point during the night. I wonder fleetingly why it was pulled up over my face, and then sick horror rolls through me like a wave as I realize - it was pulled up over my face because I was dead. My body was _dead_. I suck in a hitching gasp, feeling in that instant completely overwhelmed.

And then I see something else; I see what is going on just a few short feet away from me. Did I really think I knew what horror was, just a few short seconds ago?

My eyes widening, my breath catching, I bolt into a sitting position, then onto my knees. Sheer terror is compelling me to action, despite what feels like a solid wall of pain that wants to press me - _crush_ me - back down to the ground. It is only physical pain, after all; and physical pain I can handle. What I am seeing now is hurting me on an entirely different level; is ripping my heart to shreds. And I

Have.

To.

Do.

Something.

About it.

I have to do something _right now_.

It is the whole reason I came back, after all.

Because I can see now that at some point within the last few minutes, Sir Theodore has arrived. This should be a relief, but it is not. Because as far as I can tell, he and Gunther are... are _locked_ together, in mortal combat.

I can hardly make sense of what is happening right in front of me, some fifteen or twenty feet away. And yet my eyes are insisting that this is real, this is true. They are on the ground, rolling over and over, grappling... grappling for... and then everything clicks into place. Now I understand.

Sir Theodore is fighting to get that be_damned_ little bottle away from Gunther - and fighting fiercely, at that. But Gunther... _Gunther_ is like a lunatic. Snarling, feral, fighting like a man who has absolutely nothing left to lose.

For a few breathless seconds I am stunned, stunned right into immobility, by how wrecked, how totally _destroyed,_ Gunther looks in this moment. That I can be the cause of this is nearly incomprehensible. Then Gunther lands a mighty blow to the side of Sir Theodore's head. The older man falls away, dazed. He had been wrestling Gunther for control of that horrendous little bottle of liquid death, but now his hands loosen and Gunther wrenches it from his grasp.

There is no more time for thought. It is time to move.

I scrabble toward Gunther on my hands and knees - or perhaps I should say _hand_ and knees. I am keeping my injured arm clasped to my chest, holding it hard against my body. I notice, distantly, that the blanket - the blanket that had become my _shroud_ - has tangled around my legs. It is hindering me, slowing my progress.

And this is a very bad thing. Because Gunther has his body mostly turned away from me - I can only see him in profile - and he appears to be so absorbed in his anguish, his personal hell, that he has not registered me at all. The fact that I am alive, awake, and closing the distance between us as quickly as I can in my severely compromised state, all of this is lost on him. Totally lost.

Sir Theodore sees me. His eyes go impossibly wide in his weathered, careworn face, and he starts to push himself into a sitting position. But Gunther has been struggling with the stopper of that god-forsaken little bottle and even as I watch he finally manages to yank it free. I am not going to reach him in time.

_"Gunther!"_ I scream - and I did not know that I had it in me to scream in this moment, but it is amazing what absolute panic will do - _Gunther, NO!_"

The force of my cry almost knocks me flat. The world seems to pitch, to darken around the edges; tiny black starbursts dance in front of my eyes. My head falls forward; I am so horribly, horribly tired. More tired than I thought it was possible for a person to _be_. But I will not succumb. Not when Gunther's life hangs so precariously in the balance. I grit my teeth and give my head a single, sharp shake, willing the darkness away. If I faint now, it is over; I will have returned for nothing at all.

The world wavers and resolves itself to solidity once more, and I raise my eyes. To find that Gunther has jerked his head around, and _his_ dark eyes are now locked on mine.

He is motionless; completely frozen in shocked incredulity. I had thought he looked bad a moment ago but now, even as I watch, what little color was left in his face falls out of it. He goes beyond pale, beyond white; he goes an awful, chalky shade of grey, his wide eyes ringed with smudges of exhaustion as he stares at me.

I try to speak; I cannot make my voice work. No words will come. _He_ tries to speak, or at least, I _think_ that is what he is attempting. The only sound he manages to produce is a sick little "huh" of expelled air; the sound a person would make upon being kicked in the stomach with incredible, savage force.

He starts to list to the side then; it almost looks as if he is going to pass out. He throws out a hand - the one not holding the phial - and catches himself. Still staring, staring, _staring_ at me out of haunted, desolate eyes. His face, his posture, _all_ of him a study in mute agony.

I wish I could tell what he is thinking in this moment, but I cannot.

I cannot.

I rally myself to try, again, to speak. I pull in a deep, unsteady breath, but before I can make a sound, Gunther beats me to it.

"Jane," he croaks. His voice is so hoarse, so jagged and cracked, that it barely seems a human sound at all. _"Jane?"_

I swallow hard. "Yes," I whisper. A moment ago I would not have thought it possible for his eyes to grow any larger in his haggard face, but they do. "I came back," I tell him, as we drink each other in across the scant distance - eight feet or so - that now separates us. "I came back and I will never leave you again. Pour it _out_. Gunther... pour it _out. Please_."

He simply continues to stare. For an endless moment, he does nothing, _says_ nothing, further. Then - "Is this a trick?" he asks, in a voice that sounds scraped raw. "Because you were... you were... I _know_ you were..."

_Dead. I _know_ you were dead_. This is what he is saying, but he cannot bring himself to speak the word.

I shake my head. That is a mistake. I am getting dizzier and dizzier. In a moment I am going to fall. It occurs to me, distantly, that it is a good thing I am already on my knees. "No," I rasp. "No trick... Gunther. I came back. For you. I am going to... have to... lie down... in a minute. So please. Gunther, please. Pour it out."

But he does not. He seems unable to move at all; locked into place. And I can take no more. The faintness, the vertigo, are pulling me down. And then I collapse sideways; I cannot help it, I am slipping slowly but inexorably toward the ground.

Apparently this is what was needed to galvanize him into action.

"_JANE-!_" he shouts. My eyes are still on him even as I fall, and so I see the phial slip from his fingers as he launches himself toward me, see it fall to the earth and spill its evil contents out to seep into the muddy, churned up ground.

_Oh, thank God. Thank God, thank God, thank -_

Then _I_ hit the ground. And lose some time.


	9. Chapter 9

Very little, though, as it transpires.

It cannot be more than a few heartbeats later that I blink my eyes open once more, to find that I am lying with my head cradled in Sir Theodor's lap - apparently he had recovered his wits enough to also lunge for me when I fell, though I never saw him do it. I only had eyes for Gunther.

And speaking of Gunther...

"Jane," he says from right beside me. I blink again, bringing my eyes into some semblance of focus, staring up at him as he leans close over me. I try to raise my head then, but have to give up. I let it fall back with a groan.

"No," he says, "lie still." And one large, combat-roughened hand presses to the side of my face, cupping my cheek just as he did not long after finding me. Was that only last night? It feels a decade ago, at least.

And just as I did then, I sigh, let my eyes fall shut, and lean into his warmth, his strength. But now I intuit something that I did not before; this very strength of his, though deep, is terribly fragile. And it has to be protected, because he draws it all from _me_ - just as I draw mine from him.

We rely on each other. We have since we were children together. _Well,_ I think to myself, _at least we can admit it now. Can, and must, and will. We will embrace this truth for the rest of our lives. And beyond as well._

The thought makes me quirk a slow, sleepy smile, and I feel Gunther's other hand now too; he has brought it up to catch my face between them, holding it, framing it, caressing it. "You always smile at the most utterly bizarre moments, Jane," he says, in a voice that sounds suspiciously constricted. "Did you know?"

My smile widens for an instant, then fades. I feel myself getting ready to float away again, but it is entirely different from before. I am not getting ready to die. I am getting ready to rest. I so _desperately_ need to rest.

"Gunther," I whisper. "I am going... going to go to sleep... in a minute." I hear his sharp, hissing intake of breath. "Just sleep," I murmur, in what I hope is a reassuring voice. I raise my good hand, groping for him without opening my eyes. He takes one of his from my face and catches my hand in it, twining his fingers through mine, holding on tight. "Just sleep, I... promise. And Gunther?"

"Yes, Jane?"

"Will... will you stay with me... while I rest?"

He makes a sound that could either be a short burst of laughter or a sob... I think perhaps it is a little of each. "I am not certain that anything will _ever_ induce me to let you out of my sight again," he says. "_EVER_. Of _course_ I will stay with you, Jane, for God's sake."

Sleep is taking me now, but before I am lost to it, something occurs to me. "The king," I say, forcing my eyes open a final time. "Does he live?"

This time it is Sir Theodore who answers me. "He lives, Jane. Cuthbert too. Runners are coming from the main camp even now, with a litter to transport you back."

That is good. Relief envelops me, and a sense of calm. I still hurt. God above, do I hurt. But the king lives, the prince lives, Gunther and Sir Theodore and _I_ live, and -"

"Dragon lives too," I whisper.

I see Gunther and Sir Theodore share a lightning quick, troubled glance above me. Gunther looks back to me, eyes clouded, brow furrowed. "Jane, I -"

"No," I cut him off. "He lives. I know. I _know_."

And then it is impossible to stay awake even a second longer.

I close my eyes, and sigh, and sleep.

ooo

I wake up once, very briefly, on the journey back to the main camp, when the litter they have laid me across takes a particularly hard jolt. I crack my eyes open, seeking Gunther, and find him immediately. He is walking right beside me, keeping pace, no more than an arm's length away. Just as he promised, he is right there. Sleep closes over me again.

ooo

Some time later, I swim back to something at least resembling consciousness, when I feel myself lifted off the litter by a pair of strong arms. There is a great deal of noise and commotion all about me, leading me to conclude that we have arrived back at the main camp of Kippernium's, and her allies', fighting forces.

This time I do not need to even open my eyes to know that it is Gunther holding me; I can identify him instantly by touch, by scent, even in my current barely-aware state. I know every plane and contour of the body against which I am now being cradled. He is holding me as if I am the most precious thing in creation. I find it incredible that this man, whom I have seen in the midst of utter red rages and battlefield frenzies, whom I have seen dispatch half a dozen enemies with terrible, grim efficiency in under a minute, can have this much tenderness buried somewhere inside him. This is not the time to reflect however. Sleep is already reclaiming me. I feel Gunther stoop as we pass under something; the entrance to a tent, I think distantly. The thing that is important, the thing that matters, is that just as he promised, he is right here. Sleep closes over me again.

ooo

I have no idea how much time has passed, whether an hour or a day or a week. I just know, swimming up from the murky depths of deep sleep, that I am thirsty; ragingly, almost desperately so. Even the pain from my various wounds and injuries has been nearly eclipsed by this primal need for water. Slitting my eyes open requires an amount of effort that is almost beyond belief, but I manage it.

Staring straight upward, I see that I am indeed inside a tent, which looks to be about the size of a small bedroom. Muted light is filtering in through the fabric walls. The blanket that covers me is of some rough-woven stuff that is scratchy - a good deal more scratchy, I think somewhat disjointedly, than it should be. Flexing my limbs experimentally, I become increasingly certain that while there are a great many bandages on my body, there is little, if any, clothing. _That_ is why I am far more aware of the stiff, uncomfortably coarse blanket than I would like. I stifle a gasp.

_Oh my God. Who _undressed_ me? And Gunther - was he right here, did he _see_ -_

"Jane?"

Whether or not he was here when I was undressed and bandaged, he is certainly here now. He must have heard my gasp; apparently I did not stifle it as well as I intended.

I turn my head toward the sound of his voice. He is sitting in a camp chair beside my cot, with another chair pulled up close, facing him. He has one foot up on this second seat, his sword laid across his leg; it appears that he was in the process of cleaning it. Now, though, all his attention is focused on me.

There are a million things I want to say to him. A million things I want to _ask_. Starting with, has he really been right beside me _all_ the time, and if so, did he see... did he see when...?

Although I suppose I cannot be angry with him if indeed he _did_ stay... I am the one who asked him to, after all.

But the effort it takes to speak wipes away all my grand plans of discourse.

"Uhm," I manage to croak. And then, several seconds later, "thirsty."

He bolts to his feet so quickly that he almost upsets _both_ chairs; almost slices his hand on his own sword to boot. I frown at this. It is not like Gunther to be clumsy; he is possessed of a natural lithe agility that does not often allow him to overbalance. And then I almost _swear_ that I see him sway on his feet for just a fraction of a second - sway as though dizzy with illness or fatigue.

My frown deepens. He does look tired. No, not tired. Exhausted. Run ragged. Practically dead on his feet. The dark rings around his eyes are so pronounced now that they almost look like the sockets of a skull. My heart twists at the sight.

"Gunther -"

But he has already mastered himself, if indeed he ever swayed at all. "Shush," he says, gently, but with finality. "I will be right back." He leans the sword carefully against one of the tent's support beams, and ducks out under the flap.

I have nearly dozed off again by the time he returns, though he cannot have been gone more than a moment or two. I am not really even aware of him reentering the tent; as far as I am able to perceive, he is simply right beside me again, with a full water-skin in one hand.

He sinks down not onto the chair, but onto the edge of my cot this time. Takes his free hand and brushes a stray curl off my forehead; tucks it behind my ear. Then slips his fingers beneath my head as he did once before, on the battlefield, in order to help me raise it. I drink deep. In this moment I think the cold, clear water is the best thing I have ever tasted.

My eyes are slipping shut before he even eases my head back to the pillow. Which is a problem. Because I am concerned about him now. I want to make sure that _he_ is all right.

He must see something of this in my face because, after stoppering the water skin and placing it down near my cot, he leans close and cups the side of my face. God, how I love this new gesture of his. "Now is not the time to talk," he murmurs. "Sleep, Jane. You need it. I will be right here. Sleep."

I obey him. I really have no choice, after all. My eyes are slipping shut almost of their own volition, whether I will it or not. I am still uneasy. But no matter what, _no matter what,_ at least there is this; just as he promised, he is right here. Sleep closes over me again.

ooo

There passes an indeterminate amount of time during which I drift from deep, black, restful sleep into a slightly-more-aware type of half-sleep, and then back to full blackness again. While in the semi-conscious state I am very distantly aware of light and shadow, and the whisper of the tent flap as people come and go, and voices murmuring quiet conversations. I think I hear Sir Theodore's voice on at least a couple of different occasions. There are multiple voices I do not recognize - healers, perhaps. Once I think I hear Smithy - he has been traveling with the army, his skills highly sought after in our encampment. And once I almost - _almost_ - think that I hear Cuthbert's voice, sounding distraught nearly to the point of tears. But I cannot quite credit this last. I know he is here, _somewhere_, of course; Gunther said so. But he was meant to be hurt. I _do_ hope that he is well enough to be up and about the camp (although he was never supposed to be here at all - stupid, impetuous boy!) but even if he is, would he really come to see _me?_

I suppose anything is possible, but...

I do not know. I do not know.

One thing I am sure of, though; through it all, Gunther remains beside me. No matter whose voice I hear speaking as I float in this foggy, half-aware state, whether Sir Theodore's or Smithy's or some other that is wholly unfamiliar to me, it is always, _always_ Gunther's voice that answers back. Sometimes I can even feel that he is holding my hand; once, I manage to find the strength to give his fingers a tentative squeeze. But there is no response. I think perhaps that _he_ is dozing now. I hope so. God knows he needs it.

_Rest,_ I think fuzzily. _Rest, Gunther. Sleep deep, sleep long, sleep well._ His hand is so solid, so warm, around mine. Just as he promised, he is right here. And sleep closes over me again.


	10. Chapter 10

The first thing I notice, opening my eyes, is how quiet and dark my surroundings have gone. It is night, and not _just_ night; it is the very dead of night.

There is a faint, guttering light coming from a candle lantern over by the tent flap, but it is burned low; almost out. My eyes wander the interior of the tent, sunk deep in shadow, and finally settle on Gunther - what little of him I can see, at any rate.

It takes me a couple of minutes to figure out exactly what I am looking at. From my extremely limited vantage point, prone on the cot, it is difficult to make sense of it. I cannot really see much more than the top of Gunther's head. The chair that he was sitting on earlier - he has pushed it right up against the side of the cot near my head. He himself is now resting on the floor; I cannot actually see, but judging by the angle of his body, I think his legs must extend _under_ the cot itself. He has curled one arm on the seat of the chair, using it to pillow his head. His other arm, I realize, is actually stretched out on the cot beside me.

He is fast asleep.

_Oh my God, do I love this man_. The force of the thought is nearly overwhelming.

Grimacing and biting down on my lip, I manage to turn onto my side, facing him. For a long time I just drink him in with my eyes, remembering how, as I lay alone on the battlefield, I had prayed for the opportunity to see him, just _see_ him, one more time. I can spend the rest of my life looking at him and I doubt it will ever feel like enough.

I am still very drowsy, but am feeling more like... well, like _myself_... than I have since before all of this happened. I will not be able to stay in this position for long; it is causing my broken arm to protest too fiercely. But just for a moment or two...

I stretch out my uninjured arm, feeling almost as if I am moving in a dream. I remember running my fingers through his hair as I lay dying... and what an odd thing it is, to be thinking such a phrase, to be thinking _as I lay dying_.

Bizarre. Surreal, even. But nonetheless utterly and inarguably true.

So... I remember running my fingers through his hair as I lay dying and I am feeling compelled in this moment, absolutely _driven_ to do it again.

My fingertips graze his temple and then sink gently into his hair; stroking it, smoothing it, working out the tiny knots and snarls I encounter. Unlike my own, Gunther's hair is straight and generally quite manageable; but it is a mess tonight. He cannot possibly have brushed it, let alone washed it, since well before the battle. In the time since, it has been matted under a helmet, soaked clear through with sweat, coated and grimed with the dust of the battlefield, raked repeatedly with his fingers, and...

_A tortured image flashes before my eyes of Gunther on his knees shortly after he found me, His face the clearest picture of panic and despair I have ever seen, both hands clenched in his hair in a gesture of distress nearly beyond endurance._

I hate it that I did that to him. Hate it, _hate_ it.

I will spend the rest of my life trying to make that up to him. Finger-combing the tangles out of his dark, disheveled hair as he sleeps seems as good a place as any to start. Though I do not think I will be able to keep it up for very...

"Mmh... Jane?"

I watch his grey eyes blink open. At first they are sleepy; disconnected, musing. Then he comes back to himself. I watch as it happens, awareness and comprehension falling into place as he looks at me, still with his head cushioned on his arm. He has not raised it yet.

"I am sorry," I whisper, letting my hand fall away. "I did not mean to wake you."

For a long time he simply looks at me without speaking a word.

Then, "God, you are beautiful," he says.

I feel my lips curving into a smile. Other than that, I do not know how to react. This is so far outside the realm of what has been normal for us, conversation wise. We are breaking new ground here.

Realistically, however, I know that I cannot possibly look anything other than horrendous at the moment. I have to look like death warmed over. I mean, I... I _am_ death warmed over. After all.

I open my mouth with some vague notion of teasing him; of asking, perhaps, if he did not take a worse blow to the head than _I_ did in the course of the battle, bad enough maybe to knock his vision out of whack...

But what falls from my lips, instead, is, "I love you."

His eyes widen and he finally lifts his head, staring at me with a new intensity. The light from the dying candle lantern paints the side of his face a pale, flickering gold.

"You said that before." His voice is unsteady. "I mean, before you... you..."

"I know. I meant it. It... it has been true for years, actually. I just never... I was not... sure how you..."

"How I would receive it?"

I swallow hard and nod.

He gives a small and twisted smile. "And I stayed silent for the same reason. God, what a waste."

"No." I cannot let him go that route. Nothing lies in that direction except for bitterness and regret. What is, is. And I for one am grateful for it. "Not a waste. It brought us here. And I... I am just glad that we got here."

"Got here," he echoes, and then abruptly sits up straight. His eyes, grey-black in the dim, fitful light, are suddenly blazing with intensity. "Jane, how _did_ we get here? What happened? Because you... I thought... no, I _know_. I lost you. You were _gone_. I felt... I _felt_ it, the last breath you took, and then..."

He breaks off as, quite suddenly, his entire body is wracked by what I can only call a _brutal_ fit of sobbing. I never would have believed he was even capable of crying this way. Not Gunther.

For a moment I am speechless with astonishment. Especially when he wraps his arms around his body as if trying to hold himself together by force, pulls up his knees and drops his forehead onto them, his whole body heaving with suppressed sobs.

"Gun... Gunther!" I am reaching for him, and it hurts to do that, but there is no way I can _not_ do it, I am frantic. "_Gunther!_"

He raises his head, just marginally, just enough for me to see his eyes, and a fresh wave of shock rolls through me because he is not crying, not really. There are no tears. But he is sobbing just the same and oh my God, the hurt and confusion I see in those slate-colored eyes that I have loved for so long... it is ripping me apart.

"Gunther! Stop!" I whisper. I _have_ to whisper, because seeing him like this has stolen my breath away. "Please... _please_ stop."

"I am... not... sure I... can," he gasps. "You were... dead. _Jane!_ You were _dead!_"

Operating on instinct now, and against the increasingly strident protests of my body, I use my good arm for leverage and attempt to struggle into a siting position. I try to swing my legs over the side of the cot and Gunther has time only to say "Jane, _no!_" before I am falling off the cot and directly into his arms. Thank God the blanket is tangled up _around_ me, and so it comes with me. Swept away with emotion, I completely forgot about the fact that I seem to be entirely bare beneath it.

For that reason and others as well, toppling myself off the cot is a stupid, impulsive thing to do. But all I really want in this moment is to close the scant distance between him and me, and I certainly succeed there. Gunther's arms wrap around me and then he is holding me to him with furious intensity, holding me as if he is drowning and I am his last lifeline.

I think, in a way, this is so.

"Gunther... Gunther... Gunther." I have to repeat his name probably half a dozen times before I can get through to him. He lifts his head - he had had his face buried in my shoulder, totally curtained by my hair. When he finally raises his eyes to mine, his _own_ dark hair is spilling halfway across them. I reach with shaking fingers to smooth it out of the way.

"Do I feel dead to you?" I ask him quietly.

"No... but... God... Jane... I... you..."

Despite everything, I feel a smile trying to break through. He is making _no_ sense at all.

"Gunther. Hush. It was a simple question. Just a simple, yes or no question. Do I _feel_ dead to you?"

"No." His voice is raw. And his eyes still look... so _lost_, somehow.

"Something... happened to me," I say at length. I am having difficulty finding the right words. "It was... frightening. But it was amazing too. I will tell you about it - _all_ of it, every bit - I promise. But this is not the time. I am not... not strong enough right now. For now, just know that... that I came back, and there was a _reason_ for that, and the reason was you. For now, just let that be enough. Can you let that be enough?"

"Yes. But -"

"_No_." Part of me wants to laugh, and part of me wishes I had the strength to _shake_ him. I settle for shaking my head instead. "No 'but'. Let it be. Gunther, for now, just let it be. Because I really think I... I need to sleep again now. All right?"

He swallows hard; seems to be fighting for mastery of himself, of this situation. "All right," he says finally. "Just, here, let me get you... back in bed -"

"_NO!_" The force of my own reaction surprises me. I suck in a deep breath, and say it again, more calmly. "No. I want... I want... to be... near you... with you... I mean... um... _against_ you." I drop my eyes away from him, aware that what I am asking for is wildly improper. I cannot help it. I need this. "The cot is not big enough," I whisper. "Would you... can we... rest, um, _together?_ On the floor?"

He grasps my chin and tilts my face back up, compelling me to meet his gaze once more. His eyes are intense as they search mine for a long, spiraling moment. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because finally he nods.

"Sir Theodore has been checking on you no less than five times a day," he says. "I imagine he will be back again at dawn. We will probably get quite an earful, you know."

At this, I do smile. I cannot help it. "Worth it," I murmur. "So, so worth it." And he smiles too. A small smile, an exhausted and ragged-around-the-edges smile, but real. And there.


	11. Chapter 11

"Was Smithy here earlier? I thought I heard his voice."

"Yes. More than once, actually. He is very concerned about you. Everyone is. Of course."

"Oh. I only heard him the one time."

We are drowsing now, both of us. Talking sporadically, but with less and less frequency as the night goes on.

After I asked Gunther if he would lie with me on the floor instead of depositing me back in the narrow cot, he left me sitting propped against one of the tent's support posts and went out in search of additional bedding. He returned several minutes later with his arms full of rough blankets, then fashioned a sort of nest on the floor, helping me to settle into it before stretching out beside me.

I am lying on my back again. I wish I could be lying on my side, facing him, but my injured arm will not allow that for more than a moment or two at a time. He has one arm slung across me, down by my waist; my head is lying cushioned on his other arm. His head is not cushioned on anything, but he promised me that he is okay with that; that he is comfortable regardless. I hope it is the truth, although I do not quite believe it.

"I almost thought..." my voice is becoming slow now; distant and dreamy. "I almost thought I heard Cuthbert's voice too. He sounded upset. But Cuthbert would not have come to see me... _would_ he?"

"Why would you find that so hard to believe? He would and he did. And yes, he was _very_ upset. Do you know, I believe our crown prince is carrying a bit of a torch for you? Has been for a while, I think."

"_What?_" I practically yelp the word, feeling suddenly fully awake. "_Cuthbert!_ Is interested in _me!?_"

"And again I ask," says Gunther, his voice now ever so slightly tinged with amusement, "why would you find that so hard to believe?"

"Well... I... just... I mean... _Cuthbert? ME?_"

"That is about the size of it, yes. I have a feeling that if you took the notion, you could well become the world's first, and probably last and _only_, dragon-riding lady knight _queen_. If you were willing to give him just a few more years to mature, that is."

I am reeling. "There is... so... much... wrong with that... I cannot... even..."

"Good." His voice is emphatic. "That is exactly what I wanted you to say."

"You cannot _possibly_ have expected me to say anything else."

"Not many women would be so quick to discard a potential opportunity to become queen someday, Jane. Even if it _would_ involve waiting around for the future king to grow up a bit."

"Well, I am not many women, I am me. And I am spoken for. At least... I think...?"

"God, yes." The arm that is slung across me tightens for a second, possessively. "Only..."

_Only?_ My heart seems to jump into my throat, while my stomach twists itself into a cold, hard little knot. "Only what?" I croak.

He levers himself up on his elbow so that he is looking down at me. His face is in shadow, his eyes nearly black, but I can see clearly how troubled he is nonetheless. I can read it in the tight line of his jaw, the furrow between his brows, the circles under his eyes that look as if they have been drawn there in black ink. He looks like a man fighting to suppress a rising tide of panic. But _why?_ the horror of the battlefield is behind us now. I am healing. _We_ are healing. Even Dragon is healing; Gunther confirmed this for me shortly after we lay down here together, shaking his head in wonder. "I was sure," he told me quietly. "We were _all_ sure. I mean, he was... he looked... but you knew. _You knew_. Jane, how...?"

I smiled and told him it was part of a longer story, a story for another time. He responded to my queries about Dragon's exact whereabouts by assuring me that my dearest friend was recuperating nearby and should be recovered enough to seek me out within a day or two. I could not pry anything further out of him on the subject. I will have to get the full account from Dragon himself.

But all in all, the news is good on every front. The conflict is over. The enemy is routed. Our kingdom and our loved ones are safe. _We_ are safe. And together. So why does he look so vulnerable and distraught? Why this raw unhappiness _now?_ I do not understand.

I raise my uninjured arm; press my palm to his cheek, cupping it. Quick as a flash, his own hand covers mine and holds it there, hard against his face, his stubble scratching my fingers. He has gone days without shaving. His eyes fall shut and he releases an explosive, shuddering breath.

"Gunther," I whisper, my throat so suddenly tight I can hardly force out the words, "what is _wrong?_"

He keeps his eyes closed as he answers me. "I was... holding you... and I felt - I _felt_ you die." I suck in a breath to respond but he gives his head a quick, decisive shake, forestalling me. "No. I have to say this, Jane. I... I..." his voice is like gravel. He swallows hard; clears his throat. Finally he opens his eyes and locks them once again on mine. "I cannot go through that again. I cannot. If... if I lost you a second time, I... I do not... I _could_ not... ugh!" His face twists in frustration. "I do not know how to say this properly! If I had to go through that again, there would be... nothing left in me. Nothing left _of_ me. I would be, just... empty. And I am scared to death, I... I..."

"Gunther -"

"_I am terrified of losing you again!_" he bursts out. Then adds, more quietly, "I have never been so afraid of anything in my life. I never knew it was _possible_ to be so afraid. And I do not... I do not know how to handle it, I -"

"Gunther."

"- do not know how to cope. I do not -"

"Gunther!"

"- know how I am going to keep functioning, putting one foot in front of the _other_ -"

"_Gunther!_"

Finally he breaks off, staring at me out of haunted eyes, panting as if he has just finished running home to the castle and then straight back again. But at least I have his attention now.

"Gunther," I say again, and quite suddenly _I_ am not sure how to proceed. I interrupted his tirade and that is a_ good _thing; it _wanted_ interrupting. But what do I say in the face of that, what do I _say?_

I pull in a deep breath, trying to collect my scattered thoughts.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

"I love you," I say at last, holding my eyes steady on his. "I love you, Gunther Breech, and there are some things that I can promise you, and some that I cannot. The promises that are within my power to make, I will make gladly. But it almost sounds as though you are asking me to promise that I will never die... um, _again_... and that is not a promise I could possibly keep. Gunther, everybody dies."

He is still holding my hand pressed to his cheek and at these words his fingers tighten convulsively - almost painfully - on mine. But I do not draw back. I _cannot_ draw away from him, not now.

"I can promise you this, though," I continue. "Nothing _but_ death will ever separate me from you, not now that I know how you feel. And _as_ for death, believe me when I say this, it is not the end of anything. It is only a transition to a different way of... of being. And whichever one of us gets there first will simply wait for the other to catch up, and then we will go on together. But actually I do not think it is anything we need concern ourselves with for a while yet. And if in fact you do love me as deeply as you say -"  
>His jaw sets and his eyes flash dark fire; it has always amazed me how quickly he can be seized - seized <em>utterly<em> - by anger. He is apparently _most_ displeased that I have questioned his devotion, in even the most indirect fashion. I do not back down.

"_If_ you love me as deeply as you say, you must trust me as well. There cannot be real love without an equal measure of trust. Can you trust me on this, Gunther? Can you trust me on this enough to find peace with it, enough to let it be?"

He opens his mouth, still looking furious - then closes it again. I watch the anger ebb from behind his eyes, leaving them troubled and confused. _Gunther, why are you doing this to yourself?_ I think in frustration. _There is no reason for this to be difficult. Just trust in what I am telling you, and accept what is. For both our sakes. Please._

Sleep is going to take me again very soon. I can feel it settling down around me like a warm, soft weight. But I really, really want to resolve this first. "Gunther -"

"_YES._"

The force with which he speaks surprises me into silence for a moment. He looks and sounds like a man who has just screwed himself up do some incredibly difficult, frightening thing, and had better do it quick before all of his courage fails and his determination deserts him.

"Yes... to what?" I stammer.

"To you. To this. To trust. To... to... believing... in something... more. To anything you ask of me. To anything you want. I would do... _anything_ for you, Jane."

"You did not stop applying pressure to my wound, even when I _begged_ you, and that was the worst I think I have ever hurt in my life," I point out.

His face softens. "All right, let me rephrase that. I will do anything for you except simply stand by and watch you slip away. And you would have done the same thing to me... would you not?"

"Absolutely," I breathe, as my eyelids try to drag themselves closed. I really am about at the end of my capacity to stay awake, let _alone_ engage in rational conversation. "Gunther... lie back down... would you?"

"Absolutely," he says, echoing me, and stretches himself out beside me again.

"And... your arm..." suddenly I need, I _really_ need to feel its warm, solid weight slung across my body like it was before.

"Mmh-hmm," he murmurs, snugging it around me again. "Is that all right? I am not hurting you?"

"Never," I whisper. "Never in life."

"Jane, I love you."

"And I you."

I will sleep now, but I will wake and he will be here. I will heal. And after that? A lifetime with the man I love. It will not always be easy. There will be hard times. There will be danger. Hard times and danger are what we are about; what we've spent our entire lives training for. That is the life we chose, both of us.

But there will also be moments of breathtaking beauty and grace - I can feel it. I _know_ it. And we have time, I can feel that too. I would not have been given this second chance, just to have it snatched away again tomorrow or the next day, or next month or next year. What will be, will be. And though it may be hard, it will be good too.

Because it will be shared with _him_.

I take a deep breath, hold it, and let it go - sliding down toward sleep, instinctively curling into his warmth. Loving loving loving _loving_ him with every beat of my heart. All is well. All is well. And then, once again,

I lose some time.

OOOOO

The End.

OOOOO

(a/n: finished at last! I'm still in disbelief that I let it sit half-done for so long; and at the same time, in an equal measure of disbelief that I finished it at all. I lost my creative spark for a long, long while there, but I hate hate _hate_ loose ends and I'm so thankful that it finally returned and allowed me to wrap this particular loose end up. ps, I did the cover art too.)


End file.
